


The Spark Remembers: Extras

by pipermca



Series: Prompts and Events [9]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Ethical Dilemmas, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Referenced BDSM Relationship, See chapter notes for additional tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20704031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipermca/pseuds/pipermca
Summary: This contains all of the extra scenes that didn’t make it into The Spark Remembers.Individual scenes range from General to Teen. See the notes at the beginning of each chapter for additional tags.





	1. Finders, Keepers

**Author's Note:**

> _SPOILERS AHEAD_ if you have not yet read [The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48166048). 
> 
> This first story takes place before [Chapter 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48166048) so... We start off with a **ton** of spoilers right off the hop! Told from Prowl's point of view.

Prowl’s contemplation of the thick clouds outside the shuttle window was interrupted by the navigator’s voice. “Sir? You asked me to let you know when we were about fifteen minutes out from Praxus.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied, and leaned back in his seat. He closed his optics, uttered a little prayer to a god that he no longer believed in, and opened a private comm channel.

He’d tried this frequency many times over the past several days, ever since the first distress call was received in Iacon. In between trying to marshal resources from the Autobots to begin a rescue mission, and contacting every remaining neutral citystate on the planet for assistance, Prowl had tried the frequency over and over.

But based on the damage reports that had slowly trickled in, it was no wonder that no comm connections were getting through. If the city’s comm towers were down, nothing from any distance could get in or out. But now, Prowl was within range for short-range comms to work... If there was anyone on the other end of the frequency to reply.

::Bluestreak, it’s Prowl. Please respond.::

Prowl waited, counting off the seconds of static. He’d tried so hard to keep hope from forming in his spark, especially after seeing the first grainy images of what remained of the city. But hope had still found a slight foothold.

As the silence on the frequency lengthened, the hope that had taken root started to wither.

Prowl tried several other personal frequencies, all friends and colleagues that he had still kept in touch with after joining the Autobots and relocating to Iacon. On all of them he received the same response: static, and the whine of a comm frequency with no receiver at the other end.

After having exhausted all of the frequencies, he tried the first one once more, a tiny shred of hope still lingering.

::Bluestreak, please respond. It’s Prowl. Are you there?:: He paused, listening to the fuzz of static. ::Blue... Blue, **please**...::

Nothing.

The last glimmer of hope faded and died.

“We’re coming up on Praxus now, sir,” the navigator said. “We’re in contact with the Autobot unit on the ground and have their coordinates.”

Prowl opened his coolant-bleared optics and blinked furiously to clear his vision. “Understood.” He turned his helm to look out of the window.

The cloud had given way to smoke, and below the smoke was... Well, it was complete and utter devastation. Prowl had known that it was bad, but to see the extent of it made his ventilations stall.

There was nothing left. The soaring towers of the Garnet District, the domes of the Spinel Quarter, the delicate spires of the Quartz District, the glow of the Crystal Gardens, the broad avenues and pyloned overpasses and all the millions of mechs who called the city home... It was all gone. In its place was an unrecognizable jumble of metal and concrete and shattered plasteel, with fires still burning down among the rubble and metal still glowing white hot.

He had lived in Praxus for centuries after being forged. He had worked as an Enforcer for the city, which is how he’d met Bluestreak. He knew the city as well as the seams of his own armour, and had seen it from the air countless times. But now, he could not identify one single building in the wreckage below the shuttle.

“Before we land, can you fly us over the Civil Defense Corps headquarters in the Quartz District?” Prowl asked, his vocalizer fuzzing with static.

“Yes, sir,” replied the navigator. “We’re actually about to fly over it... Or rather, where it was, right now.” The navigator paused, then pointed out the window. “The Headquarters used to be right there, according to the map overlay.”

Prowl leaned forward, peering through the front window of the shuttle. A moment later, he sat back in his chair and resolutely reset his vocalizer before static could distort his speech any further. “Thank you, Corporal,” he said.

As soon as he saw the glowing pit that had once been the command centre for the Praxian Civil Defense Corps, Prowl knew that his comm to Bluestreak would never be answered.

He heard voices muttering in the seats beside him, and he glanced towards the other passengers in the shuttle. Mesothulas was pointing out the window of the shuttle and making notes on the data pad he held in his hand while speaking with two other mechs. When he noticed Prowl looking at him, the scientist flashed his optics at Prowl in a smile. “Based on the last telemetry data transmitted by the Defense Corps when they called for help, I believe we have sufficient information to begin a preliminary search grid.”

Prowl nodded jerkily and turned away to hide the coolant that was still stinging his optics. Now that he had seen the city for himself, he briefly wished that he had not invited Mesothulas along on this trip. He wanted to focus on helping whoever might still be left alive in the hellscape that his city had become, not being distracted by his new project. But regrets were a waste of time and energy. “I’ve given you and your team the same search and rescue credentials as the rest of the teams arriving with us,” Prowl said as he gathered the data pads scattered around his seat. “Search whatever areas you believe would have the best chance of success in finding a candidate. Keep me appraised to your location so that I can update whatever tracking system they’re using in the command center.” Then a thought occurred to Prowl and he looked at Mesothulas once more. “But keep in mind that your **first** priority will be to assist anyone you find alive, even if they are gravely injured. Recovery comes first. This project comes second. If we find no candidates here, there will be other opportunities. Do I make myself clear?”

Mesothulas nodded, and glanced at his two assistants. When they also nodded, Mesothulas turned back to Prowl. “Of course, Lieutenant,” he said. He reached out, placing his hand on Prowl’s forearm. “I understand how difficult this must be for you.”

Prowl looked down at the scientist’s hand for a moment before pulling his arm away. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, and looked back out the shuttle window.

When the shuttle landed at the temporary camp set up by the first Autobot team to arrive at the city, Prowl was greeted by the unit’s commander. “Lieutenant Prowl,” the blue mech said, giving him a salute. “I am Sergeant Chromia.” When Prowl returned her salute, she added, “My condolences about your city.”

Prowl flicked his sensor wings out to keep them from drooping, and nodded. “Thank you. Now, what is your current status?” he asked as he began walking towards the command shelter.

“I’ll be frank; my unit is running on fumes.” She ushered Prowl into the tent and showed him a map that had been laid out on a table. “We were the first ones here; the ‘Cons were still doing target shelling and killing anyone they found still alive. I think they were just about done, since they all bugged out after we arrived. We’ve been doing search and rescue ever since, and waiting for more help to arrive.”

Prowl glanced up at Chromia. “That’s been at least two straight days,” he said.

Chromia nodded. Now that he was looking for it, Prowl could see the signs of fatigue in the sergeant’s posture. “That’s right,” she said. “I’ve advised my mechs to return here when they’re down to 10% power so they could recharge back up to 50%, but I know most of them have been heading back out sooner. They just want to find as many survivors as they can.”

“How many have you found?” Prowl asked, firmly squelching the hope that he felt flickering inside him again.

Chromia leaned heavily on the table. “Four,” she said.

“Four,” Prowl repeated dully. He had read the reports, of course, but hearing it from someone close to the source somehow made it real. He had hoped that the spotty communications had painted a bleaker picture than reality. But... Four survivors, from a city of more than 500 million.

“Two days, and twenty mechs searching, and we’ve only found four survivors. The ‘Cons were thorough.” Chromia scrubbed at her optics. “They took out the anti-aircraft guns first, then the orbital cannons, and then started dropping plasma bombs. Some areas are too hot for us to even venture into still; we’re going to need specialized equipment for those places.” She pointed at the map, indicating areas marked in red. “As far as the survivors go, they’ve all been badly injured. We’ve been patching them up as good as we can with the limited supplies we had, and then dropping them into stasis while we waited for backup. Medic teams arrived yesterday to handle the survivor’s we’ve found so far, but we really could use more mechs searching.”

“Of course,” Prowl said, still trying to grasp the scope of the tragedy in his city. Still trying to come to terms with the fact that Bluestreak was never going to return his comm. “Of course.” He reset his vocalizer, and shunted his emotional responses to the side. Grief could come later. Duty came now. He pulled out a data pad. “We’ve brought 200 mechs. Approximately 44% of them have specialized search and rescue training. I’ve already sorted them into search teams so that a specialist and a field medic will be with each group. I have a team of techs unloading their equipment now to help track the search progress.” He gestured down at the map. “Now, if you could show me the places your unit has searched already, we can get started... And get your mechs back here for some rest.”

* * *

_“This visit seemed so short,” Prowl said, hefting his travel case and turning his back on the departures board. “I wish you were coming with me.”_

_“I know,” Bluestreak said. He gently looped his arm around Prowl’s waist as they started walking towards Prowl’s gate. “But let’s not have this discussion again right before you leave, please?”_

_Prowl leaned into Bluestreak’s embrace. Once again, Bluestreak was right; having this old fight right before he left was poor form. But the only words that rose to Prowl’s vocalizer were the ones he always used to try to convince Bluestreak to change his mind: to join the Autobots, and to come with him to Iacon. So Prowl kept silent._

_But they had been together long enough that Bluestreak could interpret Prowl’s silence for what it was, and he sighed. “I swore an oath to protect Praxus,” Bluestreak said. His fingers drift up to the side of Prowl’s helm, brushing against his audial in the way he knew that Prowl liked. Bluestreak wasn’t above fighting dirty sometimes. “I swore an oath to stay here, to protect our city and its mechs. I can’t leave. Not now, and especially not with all that’s happening around us.”_

_“I know,” Prowl said._

_They stopped walking beside Prowl’s gate, and Bluestreak pulled Prowl around to face him. Bluestreak’s face was earnest as he slipped a finger under Prowl’s chin guard, and tipped his helm up slightly. “I am so proud of what you’ve accomplished, in such a short time.” His smile was as shy and adorable as it always was as he leaned forward and bumped their chevrons together. A shiver ran through Prowl‘s haptic net at the sensation. “I’m sure you’ll be running the whole show before too long.”_

_Prowl pulled a shuddering vent. “I’m proud of you, too,” he said. He managed a smile. “And you already **are** running the whole show here.”_

_Bluestreak smiled at him, and then looked up as an announcement called Prowl’s transport. When he looked back down at Prowl, his expression was serious again. “I’m going to miss you. I always do,” he said._

_“I’ll miss you, too. I... I don’t know when I’ll be granted leave next,” Prowl said, trying to wring the most out of the last few seconds of their time together. “It might be a while.”_

_“If it gets to be too long, I’ll see if I can wrangle some time away here,” Bluestreak said with another smile. “But… Be careful. I worry about you, off fighting the war. Keep yourself safe.”_

_Prowl nodded, his fingers running down Bluestreak’s chest one more time. “I worry about you, too. I love you, Blue.”_

_“I love you, too, Prowl.” Bluestreak pulled him in for one more kiss right before Prowl stepped onto his transport back to Iacon._

_It was the last kiss._

A low babble of conversation pulled Prowl out of his thoughts. He glanced up from the map and his reports to see a green truck frame speaking with Chromia.

“I can do one more run, Sergeant,” he said, his voice low but insistent. “I’m forged for rough terrain like this.”

“What’s your energy level at, Hound?” Chromia asked. “And don’t lie; I’ll have it checked by a medic.”

Hound visibly slumped. “I’m at 4%, sir.”

Chromia put her hand on Hound’s shoulder. “If I sent you back out now, I’d end up having to send someone to collect you when you dropped into stasis. Get some rest. That’s an order.” Her voice was firm but kind.

Hound nodded slowly before trudging out of the tent.

“What about you, Sergeant?” Prowl asked. He’d been in Praxus for almost half a day, and he could see that Chromia was just as fatigued as the mechs in her unit. “You should get some recharge as well. We’re just working the search grid now; there’s no point in you staying to monitor this.”

Chromia nodded. “That was the last of my unit to come back in. I’ll follow my own advice. Thank you very much, sir.” She stood to leave.

Prowl crossed the tent and put his hand on her shoulder. “You and your mechs have done an exemplary job here, and you should be proud of what you’ve done. I’ll make sure Sentinel Prime hears of the work you did.”

“Thank you,” Chromia said again as she turned to leave. “I just wish we could have done more.”

After Chromia left the tent, Prowl looked back down at the map. With the additional mechs he’d brought, the number of survivors found was now at thirteen.

Thirteen survivors out of 500 million.

The scope of the destruction was still too much for him to grasp. The plasma bombs had burned holes in buildings and roads, and ignited all of the metal they touched. The heat of the melting buildings then spread the destruction even further. Even if mechs survived the bombing, they burned to death in the ensuing conflagration.

Now that Prowl had seen the devastation with his own optics, he was surprised that they’d found as many as they had still alive.

An encrypted comm pinged at him. Prowl looked at the other techs in the command tent, all still bent over their monitoring and communications equipment, and stepped outside. After glancing around to make sure he was alone, he opened the line. ::Yes?::

Mesothulas’s voice sounded smug, like it always did, but this time he also sounded excited. ::We have a candidate spark. It’s guttering and needs to be stabilized. We’re returning with it now. ETA is 21 minutes.::

Prowl knew that Mesothulas and his team were working in the Quartz district, close to the Civil Defense Headquarters. When he felt the hope rise again in his spark he mercilessly shoved it down. ::And you’re sure that it meets the criteria?::

A file transfer flickered across the connection, and Prowl opened the video. It showed a crushed frame, its spark glimmering through the shattered spark casing. It was barely even recognizable as a mech, but two large wings were flattened and twisted on the ground under it. Visible in the wreckage of its plating was half of a Decepticon sigil.

After Prowl acknowledged receipt of the file, Mesothulas sent an updated image. ::The wings and other identifying marks have been removed from the frame.:: The still image showed the same mech, but almost all of its plating and appendages had been removed. There was no sign of the purple sigil.

::Excellent work. Advise me when your shuttle is ready to launch.:: Prowl closed the comm and walked calmly back into the command tent. 

It was a simple matter to distract the techs from the radar for a few minutes while the shuttle took off. With so many mechs coming and going over the next several days, no one noticed the single shuttle and the small number of Autobots that had vanished.

Just as planned.

But the silent comm frequency still nagged at Prowl. As the search wound down and no more survivors were discovered, Prowl reviewed the identity documents that he and Mesothulas had prepared for the first attempt at the procedure. Prowl would stand in as the mech’s friend, and they had selected an all-purpose, mixed type ground frame for its identity. Nothing flashy, nothing that would attract attention, nothing notable.

...except for the fact that the mech had been “found” in Praxus. Non-Praxians had occasionally relocated to the city, but by far the most common frametype in Praxus was the classic winged chassis. 

Prowl considered two things. First, they needed to avoid attention. A non-Praxian discovered in the rubble would surely be noted. Yes, it could be explained; perhaps it had been a merchant, or just someone seeking to get away from the fighting on the other side of the planet. But it would still create some special attention, which they wanted to avoid.

The second thing was that Bluestreak was never going to answer his comm.

As his shuttle took off from Praxus, Prowl stared out the window at the still glowing remains of his city, and made a decision.

Surely, when Prowl met him again in the Well, Bluestreak would forgive him.

When Prowl arrived in Iacon, he went straight to the special lab that he and Mesothulas had set up in the hospital. The scientist greeted him warmly, placing a solicitous hand on the small of Prowl’s back as he escorted him into the ward. A mech was laid out on the slab, hooked up to so many machines and monitors that Prowl could hardly see where the mech stopped and the medical equipment began. “We have managed to stabilize the spark, in its new casing,” Mesothulas said. “And now that you are here we can officially ‘identify’ the subject and flash the spark to its new processor.” His optics flashed in a grin. “This is a big day.”

“Indeed.” Prowl stopped, spinning in place so that Mesothulas’s hand dropped from his back. He held out a memory chip. “But there’s been a change. This holds the updated identity information for this mech.”

Mesothulas took the chip and turned it over in his fingers. “Are you still to be the contact?” he asked, and his optics flickered up to Prowl’s face. “You know I don’t like last minute changes to our plans. I will have to make edits to the boot code now.”

“I am aware of that,” Prowl said. “But I will still be the mech’s contact. The changes will ensure that I can keep a very close optic on him, even closer than we’d originally planned.” He flicked his sensor wings, trying to rid himself of the feeling of Mesothulas’s hand on his back. “I want this project to go well. The closer I am to him, the faster we can determine if this plan will work as intended.”

“Very well,” Mesothulas said, palming the chip and tucking it away. “What is his new designation to be, then?”

Prowl walked up to the slab and looked down at the crushed remains of the mech they had recovered from the ruins of his city. “His name will be Bluestreak of Praxus.”


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hound and Bluestreak go sightseeing together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at some undetermined time after the end of [The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48166048). 
> 
> Rated F for Fluff. Contains some slight, teasing innuendo.

After sliding backwards another meter or so, Hound peered up the talus slope. At the top of the slope of loose rock was a sheer cliff. “And you’re sure there’s no other way up?” he asked, already knowing what his partner was going to say.

“You can check the topo map for yourself, but I’m positive,” Bluestreak replied. He took another step up the slope and paused as he slid backwards again. “I checked all the way around. There’s an avalanche chute around the other side of the peak, but it’s even steeper and more unstable than this.” He rested a hand on his hip as he looked at Hound. “The humans climb up the wall with handholds that they’ve cut, but I don’t think they’d like it if we cut handholds big enough for us to use, since this is a national park. The only way for us to get up there is to fly.”

Hound frowned up at the cliff again as he checked the map. Just as Bluestreak had said, there was no obvious way for them to get up to the top. The secluded mountain lake was only visited by climbers, but the photos they’d taken were spectacular. It was a tempting destination... If only they could get up there. “And there’s nowhere for Skyfire to land, I’m taking it?”

“Well, he could probably manage it if he was careful, but he’d have to carry us up there in root mode,” Bluestreak said. He gave Hound a small smile. “We can call this off if you want, and wait for a day that Skyfire is available. I know you’re not sure about this, and that’s all right.”

Bluestreak didn’t say it, but Hound heard the silent addition: _We don’t have to do this if you don’t trust me._

Hound looked up the slope once more. From where they were standing to the top of the cliff was only about 500 meters. Hound had been on mountain cliffs and bridges on Cybertron that were much higher than that. The only difference had been that his wheels had been on the ground.

Hound looked at Bluestreak again. The blue mech smiled at him hopefully, and flicked his door wings like he always did when he was thinking. It was almost as if you could see how hard his processor was working by how much his door wings moved. Hound trusted him, without hesitation. He’d been in his processor, and they’d been teamed up for centuries in their scouting unit before they left Cybertron.

Hound knew that Bluestreak still felt like he wasn’t a proper Autobot, not anymore. Not after what he’d discovered about his past. Hound also knew that was nonsense, and always did his best to dissuade Bluestreak from those thoughts whenever he seemed to be having them.

Like now.

“I trust you,” Hound said firmly. He stepped towards Bluestreak before he could lose his nerve and lifted his arms away from his sides. “So... How do you want to do this?” he asked. “And remember that I’m heavier than I look.”

“And remember that I’m stronger than I look.” Before Hound could say anything in reply, Bluestreak swept Hound up in his arms.

“Whoa!” Hound exclaimed. He looped his own arms around Bluestreak’s neck. “Aren’t you afraid that I’m going to scuff up your new paintjob?” he asked, glancing down at Bluestreak’s freshly painted blue and silver plating.

“I’m happy to wear your paint transfers any time,” Bluestreak said with a soft purr of his engine, planting a kiss on Hound’s nose.

Hound had to laugh at that, but a swirl of anxiety still circled his spark. “And you’re sure that... that your jetpack has enough lift for both of us?” he asked. He wasn’t nervous about being dropped. Not really. But there were other things to worry about. Mechanical things. Yes.

“Sideswipe built this thing with enough thrust to lift Optimus,” Bluestreak said. He smiled at Hound, and Hound heard the whine of Bluestreak’s jetpack turbines firing up. “Here we go!”

Hound had fully intended to watch their ascent. He **did** trust Bluestreak. He knew his lover wasn’t going to drop him. But when he felt the bottom of his tanks fall away along with the ground, a tiny squeak came out of his vocalizer. When he saw the trees at the base of the talus slope spin past, he buried his face into Bluestreak’s shoulder. When he felt them angling to the side, he shut his optics and tightened his grip around Bluestreak’s neck.

Over the roar of his jetpack’s thrusters, Bluestreak murmured into Hound’s audial. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”

“I know you won’t,” Hound replied immediately. But he still held perfectly still, not wanting to do anything to distract or unbalance Bluestreak. “I trust you.”

“I know,” Bluestreak said. Just as he spoke, the jetpack’s thrusters cut off. Hound felt a slight jar and the sound of pedes on gravel. “And we’re here.”

Hound opened his optics. They were standing on top of the cliff, well back from the edge. He knew that if he ventured to the edge he would see the rocky slope they had just been climbing, but there wasn’t any need to look down. Instead, Hound looked the other way, towards the lake he had only seen in photos, and he gasped.

The peak of the mountain climbed still further from where they stood, covered by an ice field. A small cascade of water spilled down a sheer cliff, ran down a rocky surface, and collected into a lake that was stunningly clear. Short grasses, interspersed with boulders, covered the sides of the bowl that formed the small valley.

It was stunning.

Hound barely noticed when Bluestreak set him on his pedes again. “This is... Blue, this is gorgeous!” he exclaimed. He looked around for another few moments before smiling at Bluestreak. “And yeah, I guess Skyfire would have a bit of trouble landing somewhere here that wasn’t in the water.”

Bluestreak grinned. “And I didn’t drop you,” he said. He gestured down the path leading to the water. “Come on, let’s take a closer look at that waterfall.”

Hound ducked his helm and followed after Bluestreak. “I knew you wouldn’t drop me,” he said. “It’s just that... I mean, I’m a truck frame. My usefulness and safety has always depended on me having good traction, and being able to feel the ground under me.” He shrugged. “I was just a little nervous not touching the ground. That was on me, not on you.”

Bluestreak stopped walking so suddenly that Hound nearly plowed into his back. The blue mech turned around and looked at Hound with an odd expression. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said. “I just... I just thought that...” His door wings bobbed and wove a complicated pattern in the air behind him. “I thought that maybe you didn’t trust me on some subconscious level or something.”

“I’ve always been a bit leery of heights.” Hound grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. “I trust you more than I trust myself,” he said. He smiled. “I would **never** have trusted myself to put on a jetpack and fly up here.”

That got a laugh out of Bluestreak. “Well, since you put it that way,” he said. He pulled Hound towards him and kissed him: hard and fast in the way that made Hound’s spark stutter. Then he turned around and started down the path again, pulling Hound along behind him. “There’s a nice flat spot to sit down by the waterfall. When we get there I plan on showing you just how much I appreciate your trust.” He looked back at Hound and gave him a saucy wink.

Hound followed along gladly.


	3. Opening the Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The experiment has been a success... So far. Now Prowl needs to decide whether to loosen his grip on the test subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the last scene of [Chapter 2 of The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48373510), during Bluestreak's posting in Rodion. Prowl's POV.

Prowl's concentration was broken by a sparkle of familiar laughter. Even without looking he knew who it was.

He looked up from his data pad anyway.

Bluestreak was sitting with a few members of Eremus Unit again. He had become a permanent fixture at their table ever since they arrived in Rodion. Bluestreak leaned forward as he sat at the table, his attention fixated as he listened to Trailbreaker talk. Based on what Prowl had overheard over the past few days, the truck was probably regaling Bluestreak with another tale of adventure from one of their missions. Bluestreak looked delighted, and kept glancing at the other unit members sitting at the table. Prowl guessed that some of them featured in the story Trailbreaker was telling. Bluestreak's optics glowed brightly, and his expression was animated and rapt.

He looked happier than Prowl had seen him in months.

When Bluestreak tipped his helm back and let loose another shimmer of crystalline laughter, his shoulder armor bumping Hound's as he moved, Prowl gathered his work and his fuel cube and left the mess hall. He would never be able to concentrate there.

As Prowl stalked through the corridors towards his office, he ground his dentae together as his spark and processor warred with each other. Giving Bluestreak that designation, and that identity, had seemed to make sense at the time. He was the first attempt at the spark transplant process, and Prowl wanted to have a plausible excuse to be close to him so that he could monitor Bluestreak in the event he reverted to his spark's old allegiances.

What Prowl hadn't expected was to become so fond of the mech.

He **knew** the mech wasn't his own Bluestreak. Of course he knew. He reminded himself of that fact every time he spoke to him. And even though the mech looked identical to his Bluestreak, he acted nothing like the Bluestreak he had loved.

His Bluestreak had been quiet, almost taciturn. Others had interpreted that as being cold and distant, but Prowl knew it was simply because his Bluestreak had been quite shy. But he was also incredibly dedicated, and had a drive which had helped him to rise to one of the highest ranks in the Praxian Civil Defense Corps. He had demonstrated an understated competence that provided him with a reputation for getting things done. (Although, his Bluestreak had once told Prowl that it was Prowl's support that had given him the confidence to apply for the promotions.) His Bluestreak could focus on one thing for hours, and loved reading about politics and strategy. It was something that they'd had in common when they'd started seeing each other.

This Bluestreak, on the other hand, was totally different. He was outgoing and talkative, almost to a fault. He had little interest in political science, but was endlessly curious about everything else. He loved doing things with his hands, and jumped from interest to interest on a whim. But he was sharply intelligent, and could pick out patterns and solve puzzles faster than anyone Prowl had ever met. His reluctance to fight was concerning until Prowl realized that his reticence came not from a rejection of what the Autobots stood for, but rather the need for violence at all. And Bluestreak questioned authority at every opportunity. Prowl wondered if Bluestreak's most commonly-spoken word was 'why.'

No, this Bluestreak was almost the polar opposite of the Bluestreak he had known before... But he had somehow wiggled his way into Prowl's spark anyway.

As soon as Prowl had realized how attached he was getting to the mech, he tried to distance himself from him. Bluestreak was still the product of an experiment. His spark was still that of a Decepticon. If Bluestreak had started to show any signs of disloyalty to the Autobots, Prowl knew that he would need to be destroyed. Pharma had already arranged for the destruction of three of the sparks they'd transferred into Autobot frames. Prowl did not want Bluestreak to be the fourth.

Prowl had covered for some of Bluestreak's missteps before, making sure that the mech's indiscretions didn't generate any undue attention on him. Prowl had kept him close on purpose. He was still a work in progress, as far as Prowl and Mesothulas were concerned, and all of his actions were reviewed and examined. If a spotlight was shone on Bluestreak, Prowl's influence on him might be revealed. It was important for Bluestreak to stay unnoticed.

Bluestreak made that so very hard for him, though.

When Bluestreak had hacked into the Autobot datanet, Prowl smoothed over Red Alert's raised hackles and called Bluestreak into his office. He needed to know if Bluestreak's intent had been innocent, or if he'd been looking for information that he could pass to the Decepticons. When it became clear that Bluestreak had simply been bored, Prowl was both relieved and furious. He was relieved that his friend had not succumbed to his original Decepticon nature, and furious when he realized that Bluestreak had just expected Prowl to cover for him again.

After leaving the mess hall, Prowl immediately locked the door to his office and set his data pads on his desk. Then, from a locked secret drawer in his desk, he took out his encrypted notes from the experiment and reviewed them once more.

Twelve sparks had been successfully implanted so far. Three of them had been destroyed only months after being brought back online, as they rejected the Autobots and refused to sign up. Prowl and Mesothulas had agreed that letting them live as neutrals was too great a risk, considering they could just go join up with the Decepticons again. According to the official records, all three of them had "succumbed to latent spark injury" before being released from the hospital.

The remaining eight appeared to have accepted their role as Autobots, and had all joined up "voluntarily." They filled a broad range of roles in the army, from scout to construction to interplanetary shuttles. Mesothulas's team had learned from some of the errors they had made with Bluestreak, such as not matching his spark to his frametype, and all of the remaining sparks appeared to be happy in their new frames.

But Bluestreak was not happy. And it wasn't just the nightmares that Prowl knew Bluestreak suffered from. Bluestreak hadn't been happy for months, ever since being assigned to Rodion under Prowl's watchful optic. He wasn't happy in his own body, he wasn't happy with his position in the Autobots, and he wasn't happy with Prowl.

Maybe if Prowl had not been so hard on him, Bluestreak might not have sought out the company of other mechs, like Hound. Maybe if Prowl had not intervened in his initial classification to keep him out of Spec Ops (where he would have essentially vanished into that division, away from Prowl's recognizance) and away from Tactical (where he would have had to been given a security clearance that Prowl could never had allowed him to have), Bluestreak wouldn't have been so bored. Maybe if Prowl had allowed Bluestreak to be assigned to a posting that wasn't so dull, he wouldn't be chasing after anything interesting to do.

Hmm.

Perhaps it was time to set Bluestreak free, finally... To succeed or fail on his own accountability.

* * *

As Bluestreak stood stiffly at attention in front of his desk, Prowl hesitated. He'd had his agenda ready in point form and he was sure that Bluestreak would agree, but... He hesitated, wondering again whether this was the right thing to do.

He wondered if he was setting Bluestreak up for failure. If he faltered in this new posting, Prowl would have no choice but to recall him... To end both his career, and his life.

_Primus!_ Prowl hoped he would not have to do that.

"At ease, Bluestreak," Prowl said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Bluestreak sat down slowly, his optics wide and his sensor wings fluttering. That was another difference between him and Prowl's old lover: this Bluestreak's wings bobbed and trembled and wiggled with every thought that crossed his processor. Right now, he was radiating nervousness.

Prowl wished that he wasn't the cause of Bluestreak's unease.

Discarding his agenda, Prowl decided to speak from his spark. Even if he couldn't give Bluestreak the full truth, he could give him some of it. He could try to explain.

Maybe Bluestreak would forgive him for some of the restrictions he'd placed on him.

"I know that you haven't been happy here," Prowl said. "Ever since you were brought back online in Iacon, you've shown yourself to be curious and intelligent, constantly seeking out new things to keep your processor occupied." Prowl thought of all the times Bluestreak had gotten into trouble simply by trying to keep himself entertained. "I admit that I was treating you as if you had all of your old memories, your old tastes and preferences, and your old feelings. And I know that is not fair to you." Prowl's vocalizer strained with the effort at keeping his words steady.

Bluestreak's wings fluttered again, and a look of confusion flickered across his face. "It's all right, Prowl," he said.

"No, it's not," Prowl said. He collected himself. _Tell him the truth, as much as you can_, he heard a quiet voice whisper in his processor. _He deserves to know the truth. _Prowl gathered up all of the feelings he had towards this Bluestreak and named them: affection, fondness, concern. "I admit that I've wanted to keep you close to me, but at the same time that meant limiting your experiences. You've demonstrated that you are bored with watch duty and patrols. You've shown that you need more stimulation to keep you engaged. And you've obviously made a friend in Hound. So, I want to offer you a transfer to Eremus Unit Theta 8."

There was a pause as Bluestreak visibly replayed what he had just heard. Then his wings rose and his optics brightened. "A transfer? Really?"

And here was the test.

"Yes. But think it over carefully before you answer." Prowl held up his hand in caution. "While they are a scouting unit, they encounter combat on a regular basis," he said. "They also provide support for other units in larger operations. The position you'll be filling is a gunner and sharpshooter, which means you will be asked to fire on enemy mechs. Decepticons. Previously, you expressed a reluctance to do that." Prowl watched Bluestreak's face carefully, looking for any sign of reticence. "In a combat situation, your unit will be depending on you. Their lives may depend on your ability to pull the trigger without hesitation. Are you willing to do that when asked?"

Prowl watched as Bluestreak thought over the offer. He could almost see the progression of his decision-making process in his sensor wings as they rose, then fell, then quivered, then fluttered back up as his optics met Prowl's once more. "Yes," Bluestreak said, a radiant smile on his face. "I would absolutely be able to do that."

Prowl had never been very in tune with his own emotions, so he wasn't sure whether he was feeling joy or guilt that Bluestreak had made this decision on his own.

After he had dismissed Bluestreak, Prowl pulled up the documents required for Bluestreak's transfer. But before entering the required information, he hesitated.

He wondered whether Bluestreak would have agreed so readily if he knew the truth. The whole truth.

_He deserves to know what you've done. He deserves to know who he really is,_ the quiet voice murmured in the back of his processor.

_I swear I will tell him everything, someday,_ Prowl thought. He would. He **would**! He would tell him just as soon as he was sure that Bluestreak was as devoted to the Autobots as Prowl hoped. He would tell him just as soon as Prowl was prepared for the reaction that he might get from Bluestreak.

But in the meantime...

Prowl opened an encrypted comm message and began writing a memo.

> _M-_  
_I am cancelling Project Phoenix immediately. Destroy whatever records you have and cease any further activity. _  
_Confirm receipt of this message and that my orders have been followed._  
_-P_


	4. Losers, Weepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Vortex knows Thunderbolt is still alive, he contemplates what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at some undetermined point after the end of [The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48166048). 
> 
> Contains an (extremely vaguely) implied BDSM relationship.

The sky was a brilliant shade of blue – the same blue that some Autobots had for their optics – and was dotted with puffy white clouds. Vortex missed the dusty pinks and soft reds of Cybertron's skies; he didn't think he'd ever get used to blue.

Although, Thunderbolt probably would have loved the skies on this planet, with its ever-changing clouds and bright colours. He'd always loved watching the sky.

Vortex wondered if that sniper - Bluestreak, they called him - ever just laid back and watched the sky.

Vortex let himself sink into the grassy turf, enjoying the softness of the tiny organic blades that cushioned his kibble and armor. The sun was warm on his plating, and a gentle breeze brought him the sounds of the ocean over the edge of the cliff where he lay.

He tried to blank his processor. He tried not to think about what he'd learned, and what he'd lost. He tried not to think about the bright red optics and joyful laughter that still featured prominently in his dreams.

But his thoughts kept returning again and again to the wide-eyed look of confusion and then defiance on the Praxian's face. His thoughts kept circling, trying to find a way to bring back the mech he'd once known.

It must be possible, somehow.

Vortex felt the thrum of the large engines before he saw the mech, and he clamped down on his end of the gestalt bond harder. He should have guessed that they'd send someone after him, especially after what had happened on the battlefield.

He heard a transformation sound and the thud of pedes hitting the ground. "So this is where you've been hiding."

Vortex stared up at the sky resolutely. "Did Onslaught send you after me to drag me back to base?" he asked.

"After a fashion." A mech's frame and face filled his vision as Blast Off stood over him, looking down at him passively. "His exact words were 'Find Vortex and beat him until gets over whatever's bothering him.'" Blast Off crouched down next to Vortex, still staring at him. "But that's not what you need right now, is it?" he asked.

Vortex shivered. Blast Off always seemed to see through anything that was going through his processor, regardless of how tightly he had the bond blocked. "No," Vortex replied. "Not right now, anyway."

Blast Off watched him for a few more moments before shifting around, lying down on the ground beside Vortex. "Well, you found a nice place to sequester yourself away," he said. "The clouds are nice."

"Yeah."

They sat in silence for several more minutes. Slowly, Vortex released the death grip he had on the gestalt bond. From Blast Off he felt nothing but a soft concern. From the others, muted because of the distance between them, Vortex felt the usual drone of emotions that had become his background noise ever since they were matched and joined in the combiner program.

"You gave us a bit of a scare yesterday," Blast Off said. His tone was mild, but his words were carefully selected to give Vortex the choice to reply, or not, as he chose.

That was one of the things Vortex appreciated about Blast Off. He always gave Vortex his space when he needed it.

The previous day, the Combaticons had been deployed to a power plant as back up for what was supposed to be a quick smash and grab mission. Before they'd finished, though, the Autobots had shown up with the Aerialbots in tow. Vortex and his team combined into Bruticus and faced off against Superion while the rest of the Decepticons engaged in a firefight with the Autobots.

It was when Bruticus straightened up after delivering a roundhouse kick to Superion's shoulder that the combiner caught sight of Bluestreak. The Autobots' star sniper was perched on top of a nearby building, taking precision shots at the Seekers flying overhead. But his colours had changed from the last time that Vortex had seen him. Instead of silver and red he'd worn before, he'd painted himself blue and silver.

Thunderbolt's colours.

Even though his consciousness was sunk into the fugue it existed in while the team was combined, Vortex couldn't stop his own emotions from bubbling to the surface. The cascade of rage and grief that poured through Vortex bled into the rest of the team, and Bruticus had staggered under it. Before the rest of the team could reassert themselves and dilute the torrent of emotions, Superion had grabbed Bruticus and thrown him into the river.

By the time Bruticus had found his footing in the muck and slime of the river bottom and lurched to shore, Lord Megatron had called for a retreat. To say that he was unhappy was an understatement.

"You can let Onslaught know it won't happen again," Vortex replied.

Blast Off grunted slightly. "You'll have to tell him yourself when you get back to base," he said. "He wants to see you as soon as you return, but he said to give you this time to 'sort out your slag'." Blast Off's voice changed to do a passing imitation of their commander's gruff Kaon accent. The shuttle shifted, rolling onto his side to look at Vortex directly. "If you need to talk this through with someone first, though, I'm willing to listen." Vortex felt Blast Off's concern deepen slightly. "It's not like you to lose control like that. I mean, you're always angry, but this... This felt different."

"It was." Vortex closed his optics, and saw Thunderbolt's smiling face. He preferred remembering him that way, as opposed to the grim frown he wore when they'd heard that the Autobots had bombed Vos. And Blast Off was right: the anger that he'd felt after learning what the Autobots had done to his lover was different from the simmering rage that had fueled Vortex all through the war. "It was personal." He opened his optics again and looked at Blast Off. "The Autobots... I found out what they did to Thunderbolt."

Blast Off tipped his helm to the side slightly. "I thought Thunderbolt was dead."

"That's what I thought! His squadron said that he was shot down in Praxus." Vortex sat up and stared out over the edge of the cliff, towards the alien grey-blue horizon. "But he's alive." Vortex's vocalizer grated out the next words. "They turned him into an **Autobot**."

There was a burst of understanding over the bond from the shuttle. "That sniper the Stunticons captured last week," Blast Off said. When Vortex nodded, Blast Off added, "You **have** seemed out of sorts ever since then. Brawl told me what happened in the cell room. The sniper said something, you got fragged off at him, dragged him out to your lab, and then brought him back just a little while later. Brawl said you didn't even scratch him." Blast Off's helm tipped to the side again. "What happened?"

"He... He just seemed familiar at first," Vortex said. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "But then he said something to me that only Thunderbolt has ever said." Vortex glanced at Blast Off. "His mannerisms seemed so familiar when I first saw him, but when he said that... I suspected something was up. So I scanned his serial code." Vortex's spark casing ached where Thunderbolt's code had been engraved on it centuries before. "He has the same code as Bolt. It's him, but..." Vortex shook his helm and stared up at the clouds again. "He doesn't remember who he is. He doesn't remember anything about us."

"But the sniper is a grounder," Blast Off said, his tone thoughtful. "That means the Autobots must have figured out how to seat a spark in a new frametype. I don't think that's ever been done before. Interesting." He tapped his faceplate with a finger. "Maybe if we can capture him again, and Shockwave can reverse engineer what they did, then maybe he can –"

"No!" Vortex grabbed at Blast Off's arm. He heard his own engine whining in distress. "Please. Don't tell Shockwave. Or anyone else, for that matter. Can you imagine what Shockwave will do to him in order to figure out what the Autobots did?" When Blast Off looked at him again, Vortex pressed onwards. "I can't even imagine what Bolt must have gone through, or what he's still going through."

"That sniper – Bluestreak, is it? - he always looked fine to me, as far as I can recall," Blast Off said. "In fact, the few times I've gotten a close look at him, he's been smiling."

That smile. The same smile that Thunderbolt always wore. Vortex shook his helm, trying to clear the image of Thunderbolt smiling at him. "No! Listen to me." He grabbed at Blast Off's arm. "They put him into a fragging grounder frame!" Vortex growled. "Think about it! Even if you couldn't remember who you were, imagine not being able to fly again!" He made his hands into fists. "I mean, that's the first thing I do when I really want to hurt a mech. I slice up the tires of a grounder, or shred a flyer's wings. I take away their ability to do what they are. It's one thing to do it to an Autobot, but –" When Blast Off made a thoughtful noise, Vortex let go of him and buried his face in his hands. "I don't want him to be made into a test subject. Not again! And especially not for Shockwave."

The concern he'd been feeling from Blast Off changed subtly, taking on a note of sympathy. "I understand," Blast Off said quietly. He put his hand on Vortex's shoulder. "I remember how it was for you. For all of us."

Even after all this time, Shockwave still haunted Vortex's thoughts. Yes, they had all been volunteers. Yes, Vortex had agreed to join the combiner program after being told that his sadism and zeal for violence was unacceptable even by Decepticon standards. Yes, the program had calmed the fury that burned through Vortex's frame after losing his lover in Praxus. Yes, he had found a kindred spirit in Blast Off, someone who could help quench the uncontrolled rage inside him with controlled applications of pain.

But being joined into a combiner team did nothing to fill that Thunderbolt-shaped void in Vortex's spark. And the physical agony and spark-deep feeling of violation that came with being made into a single unit alongside four other mechs – for whom he felt nothing aside from their goal of destroying Autobots - was something that Vortex wouldn't wish upon any other mech... Even if it had made him part of a force to be reckoned with.

Vortex's voice crackled with static. "Thunderbolt doesn't deserve that."

Blast Off was silent for several minutes as Vortex got his ventilations under control. When Vortex finally looked up again, the shuttle's visor was locked on his. "You still love him, then," Blast Off said simply.

"I do." Vortex nodded and looked away. "Frag it, yes. I still love him. We were supposed to be together forever." His voice sounded miserable to his own audials. He retracted his visor and scrubbed at his optics to clear them of the coolant that had pooled in them. "And now he's..." His voice caught. "He thinks he's an Autobot. He thinks he sided with the Senate toadies, when it was the Autobots' attack on Vos that convinced him to sign up with Starscream." He shook his helm slightly. "It's all wrong."

"I'm sorry." 

Vortex rubbed his optics one more time and then lowered his visor. "After I realized it was him, but he didn't remember a single thing about us, it was like he'd died a second time," Vortex said. He stared out at the sea, watching the little white avians swirling in the air currents. "But then when I saw him in that battle yesterday, all done up in Thunderbolt's colours..." Vortex felt the anger surge in him again and he balled his hands into fists. "He didn't pick those colours at random. He **must** remember something."

He felt the connection narrow between him and Blast Off as the shuttle put up a partial block, and Vortex realized he must be broadcasting his fury once more. As Vortex cycled his vents in an attempt to tamp the fire down, Blast Off eased off the block and sent him a wave of soothing calm. "That's what nearly brought us down yesterday, then," Blast Off said. He looked at Vortex and he sternly added, "You need to get that under control."

"I know. I know! But that's what I came out here to think about," Vortex said. He shifted so he could look at Blast Off straight on. "If Bolt remembers his colours, then maybe I can get him to remember other things. Maybe there's a chance to undo whatever the Autobots did to him. Maybe I can get him back!" Vortex leaned forward, his talons digging into the turf beneath him as his voice roughened with emotion. "Maybe I can get him to remember **us**!"

Blast Off met Vortex's fierce gaze with one of his disinterested looks that had likely been perfected from his time in the high society of the Towers. "If you do get him to remember you, that doesn't mean you'll automatically get him back, you know," Blast Off said. "I seem to remember that he's with that green truck now – Hound, I think it is?"

Vortex lifted a handful of sod and dirt and crushed it, letting the pieces fall from his talons. "I can fix that easily," he purred. He remembered having the green truck in his lab before, and how nice it had sounded when his blades had sliced into his tires. The Autobot's whimpers had grown to choked cries as Vortex had slowly shredded one tire, then the next. How fun it had been to coax those noises from him, and how amusing it would be to do it again. Maybe this time he'd slice off his fingers, and his data line plugs, since those are the parts that would have touched his Thunderbolt, and –

Blast Off's voice cut into Vortex's vision of Hound's energon-streaked demise. "Killing someone he cares for might not be the best way to get him to trust you, 'Tex." Blast Off reached out and gently gripped his chin guard, forcing him to look at him. "Unless you wipe his memory **again**, you have to remember that, to him, you're just the mech who tortured his friends."

Vortex stared at Blast Off with wide optics. The images of him getting Thunderbolt back, of getting him his proper frame again, of picking up where they had left off... They all crumbled into dust, just like the dirt he'd held his hand had crumbled and fallen back to the ground.

Blast Off was right. Thunderbolt was never going to trust him. Not now. Not after everything he'd done.

"Frag..." Vortex muttered. As his rage melted into sorrow, he buried his helm in his hands.

Vortex didn't bother checking his chronometer to see how much time had passed. But he was first aware of his consciousness being wrapped in a blanket of affection and care. Then he felt Blast Off's arms around him, holding him tightly. Finally he heard the soft words Blast Off was whispering in his audial.

"It's not necessarily a lost cause, you know." Over the bond, Blast Off's presence was a grounding stillness amidst the maelstrom of Vortex's despair. He clung to the shuttle's calm as he listened to his words. "You'll just have to go about it another way. Use a magnet instead of antigravs." Blast Off gently stroked Vortex's back, his fingers brushing against his rotor blades in the way that always soothed Vortex's worst tensions. "After all, you know him best. If you wanted to give him a gift, what sort of things would he like?"

Vortex leaned against Blast Off as the shuttle spoke, feeling the quiet rumble of his large engines beneath his armor. Vortex closed his optics in thought. "Puzzles, the harder the better. Memory games. Pattern-finding games." He smiled. "Anything that involves doing something ill-advised."

Blast Off chuckled. "You two really are made for each other, then." He tucked Vortex's helm under his chin as he continued to rub his back. "I'm sure Swindle would have something that would be suitable, and we could talk him into giving you his standard 'gestalt discount' for it. Then we'll figure out how to get the gifts to the sniper."

A sudden flash of Bluestreak's face surfaced in Vortex's memory, of when his expression was twisted in fear as Vortex pleaded with him. The spark-deep attraction Vortex had seen on the sniper's face when he'd first laid optics on Vortex had been replaced by revulsion.

Vortex sat up and pulled out of Blast Off's embrace to stare at him. "And then what?" he demanded. "Waltz up to the doors of the Ark and say 'Did you get my presents? Come back to the Decepticons with me?'" He felt the gestalt bond narrow again, and Vortex reeled back the feelings of despair and anger that had swelled in him. He let his shoulders slump. "I can't woo an Autobot with trinkets."

"The gifts would just be a peace offering," Blast Off said. He leaned back on his hands and looked out at the ocean. "Then comes the slow process of getting him to trust you. You'll have to show him that you're worth getting to know again." Blast Off glanced at Vortex. "But it won't be quick. It won't be easy. And it might not work at all. But I think it'll work a lot better than killing his current partner and kidnapping him."

"I can't change what I've done," Vortex growled.

"No." Blast Off looked at him levelly. "But you **can** change. It'll mean remaking yourself. It'll mean changing the ways you do your work." Looking down, Blast Off picked up one of Vortex's hands and turned it palm up in his own, touching each of Vortex's talons in turn. "It'll mean being more gentle with your subjects. It'll mean unlearning your rush to anger and violence." His gaze flicked up to Vortex's again. "Can you do that?"

Vortex's ventilations caught as Blast Off flicked the tips of his talons again. "I don't know," he said, almost soundlessly.

He honestly didn't know if he could.

After all, it had been his rage and vindictiveness that had sustained him after losing Thunderbolt. It had been his fury and spite that had kept him whole when his spark and frame were being reformed under Shockwave's scalpel. He had nurtured that anger into a burning sadism that had, in its own twisted way, kept him sane.

And now that shield of brutality stood between him and the possibility of getting Thunderbolt back.

Vortex was quiet for a moment, considering how much he'd changed since the day he found out that Thunderbolt had been shot down. He didn't ever think it would be possible for him to go back to how he used to be... But now he hoped that he could do it. "Can you help me?" Vortex asked, his voice still sounding small. "I don't know that I can do this myself."

"Of course," Blast Off said, pulling him to his chest again. "If you want me to help, I'll do whatever you'll let me do to guide you." He stroked Vortex's rotor housing again. "And if it keeps you on an even keel while we're combined, without me having to help you calm all that noise in your processor... That's even better."

Vortex twisted to look up at the shuttle's face. "I might still need... I don't know if I'll be able to do this without our sessions," he said. He wasn't sure that it would be possible for him to change how he reacted to things. But he was positive that he couldn't give up both his desire to hurt others, and the grounding Blast Off's ministrations provided him.

Blast Off nodded. "I figured. And that's fine." He patted Vortex's shoulder. "Like I said, whatever you need."

Vortex nodded and leaned back against Blast Off's chest again.

Maybe this would work after all.

They watched the planet's star dip towards the horizon, lighting up the clouds with pinks and lavenders that reminded Vortex of Cybertron's skies.

Vortex took an image capture of the sunset. He thought that maybe he could present it to Thunderbolt – err, Bluestreak – when he got a chance to talk to him again.

Thunderbolt always loved looking at the sky. Vortex was sure he'd love this sunset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved dom!Blast Off in BlushLouise's "[My Trust in Your Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842166/chapters/42102104)," so I borrowed the concept for this fic. :)


	5. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Bluestreak is returned by the Decepticons, Prowl realizes that he can't keep his secrets any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after Bluestreak's return to the Autobots in [Chapter 5 of The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48837479). Prowl's POV.
> 
> Contains Optimus Prime's weaponized disappointment.

Prowl drove far faster than the Ark's posted speed limit on his way back to his office from the medbay, ignoring the warnings from Red Alert advising him to slow down. He transformed as he reached his office and stumbled through the door, slamming his hand on the button to close it.

As soon as the door to his office closed, Prowl slumped back against it and covered his face with his hands.

Out of all the mechs on Cybertron, out of all the Decepticons in the galaxy, out of all the coincidences and twists and turns over the course of the war, what were the chances that Bluestreak would be captured by the **one** mech who just happened to know Bluestreak's original serial number by memory, and would intimately know the mech to whom it used to belong?

Prowl didn't even need to engage his tactical computer to calculate that the odds were infinitesimal.

_You should have told him when you had the chance, Prowl,_ said the soft voice in his processor. _He deserves to know who he really is. He deserves to know that he's not me._

"I know," Prowl groaned through gritted dentae. "I **know**!"

Over the years, the voice in his processor had taken on Bluestreak's – **his **Bluestreak's – tone and demeanor. The voice was never cruel; his Bluestreak had always been soft-spoken, even when he was angry. But it was insistent, prodding and reminding him that he had wanted to tell Bluestreak the truth about his origins.

And Prowl always put it off, waiting for a better time.

He had considered telling Bluestreak a half-truth, if only to give himself plausible deniability. He considered telling Bluestreak that it had been a mistake, that they had thought his spark was Bluestreak's, but that it really belonged to another mech. That the error had been discovered during some routine checks. That it had been an innocent mistake.

But the voice in his processor objected to that, and Prowl found himself agreeing with it. Bluestreak was smart, and would go digging if he was given that information. Telling Bluestreak a half-truth and then having him find out the whole truth (along with Prowl's involvement) would be even worse than keeping the information from him at all.

So Prowl said nothing.

As time went on, telling Bluestreak seemed less and less important. Bluestreak had finally accepted his role as an expert artillery specialist, and had gained a reputation for being one of the best snipers in the Autobots. After arriving on Earth, his discomfort with his frame had lessened somewhat, although he still had nightmares. Smokescreen's regular assessments of his mental state never found anything egregiously wrong, or at least not more than any other mech's. And after so many centuries of war, everyone had nightmares and baggage. The only difference with Bluestreak was that Prowl had an inkling as to what Bluestreak's baggage really contained.

And Bluestreak seemed happy with Hound, while Prowl had found solace with Jazz. Before they'd left Cybertron, Prowl had almost given into Mesothulas's hints and flirtations, simply out of loneliness. The attack on Kimia had thankfully put an end to their fledgling relationship. So it had come as a comfort when he had finally accepted Jazz's advances, and found what he had been missing after so long: true friendship, companionship and physical affection.

Everything seemed to be working out for everyone.

After Prowl and the Autobots found themselves on Earth, telling Bluestreak where he had come from seemed less and less critical, and would likely only cause problems. Prowl had decided to do nothing. On this backwater planet, out of touch with Cybertron, how could Bluestreak possibly find out his true identity?

Unless he just happened to be captured by the very mech who had once been his lover in his previous life, of course.

_The seed will have been planted in his processor_, murmured the voice that sounded like his old Bluestreak. _He will find out eventually on his own, if you do not tell him. He deserves for you to tell him the truth._

"I know!"

Prowl stormed over to his desk and stood over it, looking down at his work, clenching and unclenching his fists in impotent frustration. Tactical analyses, plans and contingencies, reports and proposals. It was what he did. He planned. He foresaw. He strategized.

How could he have mishandled this one variable so badly? How could he have permitted this one game piece who was so important to him personally to fall into enemy hands? How could he not have developed a contingency plan for this exact situation?

_Maybe you really wanted him to find out what you did_, whispered the dead Bluestreak.

The entry chime to his office rang, startling Prowl out of his thoughts. He stared at the door for a moment, his spark thrumming in his chest as if it would spin away. What if it was Bluestreak?

What in Primus's name would he tell him?

_You would tell him the truth, Prowl_, whispered his Bluestreak.

"Prowler? I know yer in there. I brought ya yer evening fuel."

Prowl's knees quivered, almost making him collapse to the floor. "Come in, Jazz," he said, his voice sounding weak to his own audials.

As soon as Jazz entered, the smile dropped from his face. "Prowl? What's wrong?" Jazz put the cubes of fuel on the desk and swept around it to stand beside Prowl, grasping him around the shoulder as if to keep him up. Jazz eased Prowl down into his chair before sitting on the edge of the desk, gripping Prowl's hands tightly. "Ya look terrible. Is this about Bluestreak? I was just in to see him, and the doc said he'll be fine. Sounds like 'Tex went easy on him for some reason."

Prowl almost laughed. Of course it was about Bluestreak, but not how Jazz meant. But his laugh died in his vocalizer before it could surface.

Over the years he had woven a tapestry of half-truths and misinformation, and not just for Bluestreak. As time passed, the web of lies grew thicker. Jazz had heard the story, too, of how Bluestreak had been caught in the destruction of Praxus, and how close Prowl had been to Bluestreak before the city had been destroyed. Prowl had never purposefully linked the Bluestreak he had loved to the Bluestreak who was a sniper for the Autobots. But neither had he told Jazz that the chatty Praxian was not the same mech that Prowl had loved before the war. Why would he?

Prowl didn't need the voice whispering in his processor to tell him that Jazz deserved the truth, too.

At Prowl's continued silence, Jazz's frown deepened. "Prowler?" he asked.

Prowl steadied himself for what he was about to say. Finally, he found the strength to speak. "That isn't Bluestreak," he said quietly.

Jazz tensed. "What are ya sayin'?" he asked. "Did the 'Cons do some funny business in his processor? Is he compromised? Did ya tell Red? If that's not really Bluestreak, then-"

Prowl put his hand on Jazz's knee to silence him and looked up, taking in Jazz's concerned expression and focused look. "It's all right. It's the same Bluestreak that you've known for years. But... There's something I need to tell you." Prowl took a deep vent of air...

And told him.

His words came haltingly at first as he explained the purpose and reasoning behind the project, the basic plan, and the ultimate goal: to help the Autobots win the war, or at least to not be crushed beneath the Decepticons so quickly. As he described hearing about the fall of Praxus and learning that his Bluestreak had been killed, Prowl's voice dropped to almost a whisper. When he recalled learning that a viable Decepticon spark had been found, he found his strength and his words came easier. When he revealed how that spark was brought back online as Bluestreak, the words simply poured out of him.

He told Jazz **everything**.

It was almost as if he'd wanted to have someone to confide in after all this time. Losing contact with Pharma after he'd been transferred to Delphi and (thankfully) falling out of touch with Mesothulas after the devastating attack on Kimia meant that he had no one else in his immediate circle of contacts who knew about Project Phoenix. After centuries, the need to tell someone had grown. And he couldn't have told Bluestreak because...

Well, he explained that to Jazz, too.

When he ran out of words, Prowl sat still and stared at his hands. He had finished the fuel that Jazz had brought him as he spoke, and he turned the empty cube over and over in his fingers. He reviewed all that he had said to see if he had missed any points or any information. He had not.

Jazz said nothing.

Finally, Prowl lifted his gaze to look at Jazz. The spy sat sprawled in the chair he had pulled up next to Prowl, his relaxed pose in direct contrast with the serious expression on his face. Finally, Jazz leaned forward and blew a gust of air from his vents. "So," he drawled, setting his own empty cube on the desk. "Bluestreak's not really yer old lover? But ya let him – and me – think that he was?"

Prowl's door wings dipped low at Jazz's question. "That is correct," he said.

Jazz shook his helm. "As a Special Ops mech, I've been forced to take enough 'personal psychology' courses to know exactly how fragged up that is," he said. "I mean, I could probably come up with four or five different ways to explain the fraggitude of this whole thing."

Prowl focused his optics back on the cube between his fingers, slowly spinning it on opposite corners in a geometric pattern. It was easier than looking at Jazz. "I understand what you must think of me, now," he said. "And I understand if you no longer want to continue our..." His voice crackled.

Prowl tried not to think about the fact that he was going to lose Jazz's friendship along with Bluestreak's.

"Ah, Prowler," Jazz sighed quietly. At the nickname, Prowl looked up. Jazz wore a half smile, his visor fixed on Prowl's face. "I knew ya had yer secrets, just like I've got mine. I mean, at this point in the war, who hasn't done somethin' that they aren't wholly proud of?"

"You're not upset with me?" Prowl asked. He heard the quaver in his own voice.

Jazz shrugged. "I am, a bit. I wish you'd have told me sooner, but I get why ya didn't. And I'll get over this." As Prowl felt himself starting to relax, Jazz leaned forward to touch Prowl's knee. "But I'm not the only mech wronged here, not by a long shot. Now that you've told me, ya gotta tell some more mechs."

"Yes," Prowl said with a nod. The voice in his processor whispered in agreement. _Yes. Bluestreak deserves to know. **Both** of the mechs here on Earth deserve to know._

"Yup. And Prime." When Prowl's door wings shot up over his shoulders, Jazz's expression hardened. "Think it through, Prowl. Vortex knows, or suspects, what ya did. He's gonna blame the Autobots. Who knows what he's gonna do with that info? Prime needs to know about this so that he's not blindsided if this comes to a head."

Of course.

Prowl found himself nodding again. "That would be the prudent thing to do," he said. He pulled another full vent cycle, shook out his door wings, and met Jazz's gaze again. "Thank you for listening. And for understanding." He grimaced. "I am sorry for not telling you the truth earlier."

Jazz grabbed Prowl's hands and brought them up to his lips. "I'm sorry that ya lost your Bluestreak, for real," he said softly. "I know how much you loved him."

"I did love him," Prowl whispered. He remembered the last time he'd seen his Bluestreak, standing at his gate at the travel port in Praxus. If he had known that it was the last time he'd see him, kiss him, speak to him, would he have said or done anything different? He didn't know. Prowl felt coolant pooling in his optics, and a wounded noise escaped his vocalizer as Jazz's hands tightened around his. "I loved him dearly." Prowl felt a tightness growing around his spark, just like he had when he had realized that Bluestreak – **his** Bluestreak – was never going to answer his call ever again. He let his fingers wrap around Jazz's, and squeezed gently. "I don't know why, but... Telling you what I've known for centuries makes it seem more real."

"Because now ya gotta face the truth, Prowler," Jazz said. His mouth was set in a firm line, even as his fingers rubbed small circles on the back of Prowl's hands. "Ya came clean to me. I forgive ya. But Blue..." He shook his helm. "I don't know how that's gonna go. It probably won't be pretty." He tugged on Prowl's hands, pulling him into a standing position. "But first... We gotta tell Prime. And I have a feeling that's going to be just as ugly."

* * *

Jazz was right.

Optimus Prime had a way with words. He could rally the Autobots with just a few phrases, called out over the battlefield in his deep and sonorous voice. He could comfort a mech who was on the brink of the darkest despair, first by sympathizing with them and then turning their thoughts elsewhere. And Prowl knew his battle cries struck fear into the hearts of Decepticons.

But in some ways, his silence was even more powerful than his words.

Prowl tried not to fidget as Optimus read through the files Prowl had given him. As the silence thickened, the disapproval radiating from the Prime grew.

Behind Optimus, Jazz leaned on the wall and read over the Prime's shoulder. Jazz had accepted what Prowl had done ("half of Spec Ops could be brought up on war crimes if it ever came down to it," he'd said) but he had also been very clear that Prowl needed to face the repercussions for what he'd done.

Prowl thought that was more than fair. He'd been afraid that he'd lost Jazz's faith, just as he was about to lose Bluestreak's. And as he watched the Prime's expression harden even further, Prowl steeled himself for Optimus's reaction.

He didn't need to wait long.

Optimus set the datapad down and stared at it for a full minute before looking up at Prowl. "You understand, Commander, that this program of yours constitutes a grave ethical breach," he said. "I would never have agreed to this. Although..." His optics darkened. "I suppose that Sentinel would not have objected."

"Sentinel Prime asked our group to find ways to turn the tide against the Decepticons," Prowl said. "This was my contribution, but..." He shrugged slightly. "I never got the chance to brief him about the project. I cancelled it shortly before he was killed."

Optimus tapped the datapad. "Well, the first thing we need to do now is let them both know. Neither of these conversations is going to be easy." He frowned. "Since Bluestreak is the one who may now suspect, let's start with him." He pressed a button on his desk. "Red Alert, can you please provide me with Bluestreak's location?"

"Bluestreak is in the rec room. He's plugged into a terminal watching a show," Red Alert replied immediately. A moment later, he added, "That's strange... There is some unusual network activity coming from that terminal."

Memories of the dressing down he'd given Bluestreak in Rodion suddenly flashed into Prowl's processor. "He might be in the datanet," he said urgently. Prowl knew that there wasn't anything on the Autobot datanet about Project Phoenix, but Bluestreak was adept at piecing together information. _He would have been a great asset for Tactical, had you allowed him the security clearance for it_, his Bluestreak's voice in his processor murmured.

"He's in the datanet? Is this authorized?" Red Alert's voice rose in pitch. "I **told** you he should have been disciplined for this before! I'll pull his access now and –"

"Belay that action, Red Alert," Optimus said. "Pull back your network monitoring immediately. I don't want anything to tip him off that we're aware of what he's doing. I'm sending Jazz to deal with this. Let Jazz know if Bluestreak moves from the rec room."

"Yes, sir," Red Alert said. His tone was sullen.

Optimus closed the comm line and nodded at Jazz. "He's probably only looking for information on himself, but I want to make sure he hasn't made the connection that there is another mech in the crew who has the same origins," he said. "Not yet."

Jazz nodded, already moving towards the door. "You got it, Prime."

When the door slid shut again, Prowl looked at Optimus. The Prime leaned forward on his desk, looking at Prowl intently. "Now..." Optimus said. "Before they return, I want to make sure you understand exactly how disappointed I am in your actions. Then we're going to discuss how you will make this right for both of these mechs whose lives you manufactured. And **then** we're going to go over exactly what you're going to tell them." The Prime's optics narrowed above his closed blast mask. "And you will tell them **everything**."

Prowl worked his intake as he stared at Optimus with wide optics, then nodded.

Bluestreak's voice in his processor was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last chapter we'll find out who that other mech is. :)


	6. Decepticons Among Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Huffer hated everything about Earth. But at least he could trust his fellow Autobots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between chapters 5 and 6 of [The Spark Remembers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315854/chapters/48166048). Huffer's POV.

Huffer hated **everything** about Earth.

He hated its alien blue skies. He hated the organic life that teemed in every single biome, even those that you'd think would be actively hostile to organic life. He hated the water vapour that seeped into everything and allowed rust to set in with only the tiniest provocation. He hated that this same moisture rained down from the sky at irregular intervals, in all manner of forms. And snow. He really hated snow.

He also hated the fact that they'd crashed here and been reformatted into the ugly, boxy specimens that the dominant lifeforms used like dead drones. Ugh. He hated the fact that the Autobots were so badly outnumbered compared to the Decepticons. He hated the constant foraging and begging that the Autobots had to do to keep themselves fueled and repaired.

But mostly, he hated Earth because he missed Cybertron so very much.

He had dreams about returning to Cybertron, and seeing its welcoming red skies and feeling its dry air. He dreamed about **proper** roads and **smart** traffic signals. He dreamed about seeing the Mithril Sea again, and of hearing the Sonic Canyons. He dreamed of one day going back **home** and rebuilding all that had been lost. Until they could do that, though, Huffer knew they were stuck on this miserable planet.

And he hated every moment of it.

However, Huffer was a loyal Autobot, and he'd agreed to do what was needed to help defeat the Decepticons. That included taking whatever shift or duty he was assigned. Huffer wasn't terribly fond of guard duty, though. Depending on who you were teamed up with for the duration of the shift, guard duty was boring, dull, obnoxious, frightening, or far more exciting than guard duty should ever be.

When he was on guard duty with Cliffjumper, Huffer knew that his shift was going to be aggravating.

"I'm telling you, we should just storm the Decepticon base," Cliffjumper said as he stared into the deepening dusk. "We know exactly where it is. If we just threw everything and everyone at them all at once, we could probably take most of them down and then capture the rest! Then it would just be a little mop up operation and the war would be over." Cliffjumper nodded to himself. "Done and done."

Huffer tried not to roll his optics. Great. He was on duty with 'Tactician Cliffjumper' tonight. At least that was better than 'Resident Gun Nut Cliffjumper' or 'Thinks He Should Be in Spec Ops Cliffjumper.' "I'm pretty sure that Prowl has already considered that scenario," Huffer said.

"Maybe," Cliffjumper said. "Or maybe it's just so obvious that it just never occurred to him."

The sound of pede steps on metal behind them made both mechs turn. Bluestreak walked down the ramp of the Ark, tossing them a wave of his hand before transforming and driving off into the growing darkness.

Cliffjumper's optics narrowed. "Speaking of obvious," he growled.

Huffer glanced at the red minibot. He knew he really shouldn't rise to Cliffjumper's bait, but what else was he going to do with his time? "What are you talking about?" Huffer asked. "Bluestreak registered that he was going out for a recreational drive."

Cliffjumper threw his hands in the air. "Yes? And who knows where he's really going?" He stared off into the night where Bluestreak's tail lights had vanished. "He was just captured by the Decepticons and was released just a day later, with barely a scratch on him."

Huffer shook his helm. He'd seen the two Autobots when they'd been returned, and it was obvious that they'd been roughed up a little bit. "Actually, he and Sunstreaker both had a couple of good sized dents in their-"

"All I'm saying is that they were back super quick. Why even capture them if you're going to give them back so soon? Unless they're really your spies!" Cliffjumper rubbed the stock of his rifle absentmindedly. "I'm telling you, something is up with that whole situation. And now Bluestreak is off on his own already, with no one going to keep an optic on him." He frowned. "It's just suspicious."

"We made a deal for their return," Huffer said, even as he was berating himself for letting Cliffjumper get started. He should just shut up and wait for the angry mech to talk himself out. "And sometimes mechs come back pretty quickly. Just a few months ago, Hoist and Gears got returned in exchange for an energon converter."

"And that's another thing!" Cliffjumper exclaimed, seeming not to notice Huffer's pained groan. "Why do we keep giving those thugs things they need! If we just starved them and refused to give them what they want, we could have won this war already!"

_Don't engage him. Don't encourage him. Don't-_ Oh, frag it, Cliffjumper was on a roll already. Nothing Huffer said or didn't say would dissuade him from his rant. Huffer decided he might as well use the opportunity to make the guard shift go a bit faster. And maybe – just maybe – he could come up with some retort to make Cliffjumper shut up. "So you'd prefer that we just left everyone who got captured with the Decepticons?" he asked. "Even if they were in serious danger?"

Cliffjumper started at that, staring at Huffer. Then he glared off into the night again. "Fine, you've got a point there," he grumbled. "I'm just trying to say that the Cons must have some advantage that we're not seeing. And just maybe it's because they've got a spy in our base."

"I don't think I need to remind you what the Prime said about accusing mechs of being spies," Huffer said. The Prime had addressed his lecture about rumours to all of the Autobots, but everyone knew exactly what he was talking about: Cliffjumper's insistence that Mirage was a double agent for the Decepticons. "So maybe you should keep your suspicions to yourself this time." He watched Cliffjumper's jaw work as he ground his dentae together audibly, and Huffer blew air from his vents in a sigh. "Everything is bad enough on this horrendous planet without having to look for Decepticons under every rock."

"That's easy for you to say," Cliffjumper growled. He threw a glare at Huffer. "Do you know how many times I've been nearly killed by the 'Cons?"

"Three?" Huffer replied. He'd given up on calming the other minibot down. At least the guard shift was going more quickly this way.

"Ten." Cliffjumper tucked his rifle under his arm awkwardly and held up both of his hands, splaying the fingers on each hand apart. "Ten times! Ten times I've almost fallen into the Well. Ten times some medic or repair drone has pulled me back." He started counting on his fingers. "I've been blown up, shot, crushed, crashed, torn apart, shot again, stabbed, shot a **third** time, crashed again, and surgically disassembled." Cliffjumper's armor rattled at the last words, and he paused. "Ten times I've nearly met my end because of something the Decepticons did. So **of course** I'm going to see them everywhere."

Huffer frowned as he reviewed the list of near-death experiences Cliffjumper had listed off. "Hang on, are you counting us crashing on Earth as one of your times? Because that happened to everyone here."

Cliffjumper's engine growled. "Just because it happened to everyone doesn't mean it didn't count."

"I didn't mean it like that," Huffer said with a shrug. "I just didn't think of crashing here as a time I almost died." He thought for a moment. "If it does count, that means I'm up to twelve times myself."

"It's not a contest," Cliffjumper muttered.

"Although, construction work can be a bit dangerous. Three of those times were before the war," Huffer continued. "Would those count?" He tapped his fingers on his rifle absentmindedly as he considered. "Since the Decepticons weren't involved in the work mishaps, I suppose they wouldn't count going by your metric."

Cliffjumper grunted wordlessly.

Huffer smiled to himself; it seems he'd figured out how to derail this particular Cliffjumper rant. Maybe now he could go back to his silent contemplation of how much he hated this planet.

Suddenly Cliffjumper's posture straightened, and his optics dimmed slightly as he received a comm. Huffer watched as Cliffjumper's helm snapped up and down in an unconscious nod to whatever he was being told before he turned to look at Huffer.

"The Prime just asked me to come to his office," Cliffjumper said. "He said that Prowl has something important to tell me. Maybe he wants my advice on storming the Decepticon base!" His smile looked positively gleeful.

"Or maybe he wants to warn you against making accusations against other Autobots, like Bluestreak," Huffer said.

Cliffjumper waggled a finger at Huffer. "One of these days I'm going to be right, and everyone is going to be thankful that I was so vigilant. Any one of us could secretly be a Decepticon," he said. "Anyway, Brawn is on his way out to relieve me. You'll be all right out here for a few minutes by yourself?"

"I suppose," Huffer said with a roll of his optics. "If any Decepticons come storming our base I'll be sure to call it in."

"Great!" Cliffjumper transformed and drove into the Ark.

Huffer turned to look back out at the night. The stars had started to come out, and somewhere out of sight some organic creature called, its voice trilling softly.

"Ridiculous," Huffer muttered, thinking about Cliffjumper's seemingly random accusations. As if there were any Decepticons hiding amongst the Autobots. Mirage was a little aloof, but Huffer didn't doubt his commitment to the Autobots. And Bluestreak was about as trustworthy as they came. He was a friend to just about everyone on base.

Huffer hated a lot of things about this planet, and the situation that the Autobots had found themselves in here. But at least he could be certain that all of his friends were loyal Autobots.

Even Cliffjumper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those are all the little extra bits that I wanted to tell about my Big Bang fic. I hoped you enjoyed them!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, please consider sharing it on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pipermca/status/1174840368619241478), [Tumblr](https://pipermca.tumblr.com/post/187829652412/the-spark-remembers-extras), or [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/844183)!


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